


Coagulation

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Comforting Each Other, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5353208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They need each other to get through the nightmares of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Flames and Bones

Fire. Scorching over his skin, blacking his hands. The flames lick his arm and their tongues are gentle, soothing. Smooth as silken bed sheets. He’s swathed in flames and they don’t hurt. He can’t feel them at all but he sees them, golden tendrils flickering red and smoky brown, wrapped around him. He is _in_ the flames, part of them or are they part of him or does it matter at all? Does any of it matter when the whole world is burning?

It starts with an explosion, deep in his shoulder. He hears the crack, the snapping splintering of bone, sees the blood come trickling slowly forth. The flames hiss as they meet it and still he doesn’t feel anything. Still it’s numb. He’d shrug it off, only his shoulder won’t move. Why won’t his shoulder move? Shoulders are supposed to move. He knows that; he learnt it in medical school, but he knew it anyway. It’s one of those things you just _know_.

The skin on his arm flakes off beneath the flames, from powdery white to glistening red, one stream of blood snaking along. A river photographed from above, the hues tampered with on a computer, deepened and inverted. The things people can do these days, and he can barely manage a blog!

The flames tickle, tingling beneath the skin, worming their way in. Irritating as a feather ghosted over a wrist, the twisting tingling that won’t go away until you scratch it out, nails sharpened to claws tinged in blood. Biting and maddening and he wishes he could tear it off, shred his skin from his bones but the flames won’t let him, they tear the flesh from his hands instead and all he can see are glistening white bones, slim and elegant as they powder into dust.

His eyes snap open, sweat beaded across his skin, cold and shivering. But he is warm, too, wrapped tight and pulled so close he can hear his heart beating, that familiar sharp face framed with curled, the harsh angles softened with worry.

That’s not his heart, it’s too calm and his is racing through his chest even though he’s not on fire any more.

“You’re all right, John.” The voice is soft, a soothing baritone that eases the trembling in his limbs. “You’re all right.”

John swallows, and it’s so much easier to breathe now, Sherlock’s hand gripping his own, which is definitely a real hand and not a skeleton hand. And there’s no stinging, burning pain, no shattered shoulder, no fire eating through the world. Just Sherlock, who hasn’t slept, and Baker Street.

And right now, there’s nothing more that he could want.


	2. Of Nooses and Darkness

The darkness is oppressive, weighs heavy on his eyelids, a noose tightening around his throat. He can’t breathe, it’s pulled all of the air out of his lungs. His throat is dry and he can’t breathe and they’re coming for him. The walls are closing in, squeezing him, wrapping around him and he can’t move, mind spinning out of control, flashing red lights and the rope is so tight wound his neck and he _has to get out of here_ , has to run, his heart fit to pound through his chest, splinter his ribs and –

“Sherlock. It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s okay, I promise.”

John? What is John doing here? He’s supposed to be at home, in London, safe from Them. He can’t be here.

“You’re safe, Sherlock. Don’t panic, you’re safe. I’m here.”

He’s not safe. They’re coming with their lasso and they’re going to strangle him, and John can’t be here for that, he shouldn’t have to see him die. He’s watched him die enough times, off Barts’ roof, the bullet that tore him apart and there was so much blood and he couldn’t breathe –

The noose is gone, the dark blasted away with golden light and he sucks in a breath greedily. Oh it’s so nice to breathe. It’s not boring, not at all. He’s safe, he really is. And John is really here, his eyes so worried, and yet his lips smiling so softly, so gently.

Baker Street. Not Serbia, Baker Street. And John’s cheek is warm and solid under his hand. Real.

It was just a dream. He’s not dying. The walls are not closing in, no body is trying to strangle him and there is no crushing block of impenetrable marble on his chest crushing his ribs to splinters. He really is safe.

John’s lips are soft on his forehead, and he sighs, relief crashing through him.

“I love you, John.” His voice is so hoarse, but it seems so important to tell him, to make sure he knows.

And John’s eyes crinkle, shining at him. “I know you do.”


End file.
